by Rene J. Navarro

Snow is falling in transparent 
sheets across the garden 
of lilacs into the woods 
beyond. The dragon is out 
there, his tail whipping 
the wind in gusts
along the rhododendron path. 
He has been out since 
dawn, tasting the melting 
snow on his tongue. He hears
the elegant  explosion
of a flake vaporising
in an instant: it recalls
other quiet 
revelations 
of the quotidian. 

… Flute 
music rising with the mist above 
the darkening canopy
of trees in a deep 
valley somewhere in
the Catskills where Rip 
Van Winkle slept
for 20 years. 

The morning 
sun in haze as the rays hit the air 
descending on Chengdu from the foothills
of the Himalayas. 

The taste of cold 
ripe cherimoya: sweet, 
sour, bitter 
at once, flavors 
of a childhood 
in a tropical 
town north 
of Manila. 

The moaning 
echoes of a frozen Waban 
Lake as ice pushed 
against ice. 

All the seasons
of his lifetimes 
he has heard 
this earthsong as 
of white cranes taking him 
to the farthest
star, his senses 
waking him
in small 
satori to God’s presence 
here on earth. 

© RN 2022

*** published in “flippin’ — Filipinos on America” edited by Luis Francia and Eric Gamalinda (Asian American Writers Workshop) 1995.

Rene will be a regularly contributor to the blog this year, but if you cannot wait for the next piece, head to the website: https://www.renenavarro.org/